


Collateral Damage

by sycamoretrees



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Mild Pain Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretrees/pseuds/sycamoretrees
Summary: It’s dumb to do this before a game but Gally never claimed to be smart: he’s spent the past 3 months getting punched by his teammate and then getting his dick sucked, and tomorrow he’s fighting a dude who’s 7 feet tall and apparently telegraphs his hits like newspaper headlines, all because Prust left New York and couldn’t deal. Gally’s life is dumb right now.





	Collateral Damage

‘He always signals his punches, he leans to the left when he’s going for it with the right, look out for that. That’s when you come up at him, don’t give him a chance to make the swing.’

Prust spends a lot of time teaching Gally how to fight Brian Boyle. He knows his weak points, teaches Gally about them, teaches him how to fuck Boyle up the best, and he spends _a lot_ of time doing it. When Gally comes back to his room Alex looks up from his laptop, eyeing Gally suspiciously.

‘You been with Prusty this whole time?’

Gally just shrugs and smiles and goes to rub arnica on the bruises.

* * *

Gally brings it up once. ‘You know, this Boyle guy doesn’t fight all that much, man. Are you sure this is worth it?’

Prust sets his jaw and folds his arms, grits out something about not forcing Gally to stay. OK, Gally thinks, we’re not going there. Fine.

‘Hey, it’s cool, dude, whatever. I’m having fun,’ he grins, and they start up again.

Gally – well, Gally knows he’s got a thing about pain; it’s not something you can really miss, playing a contact sport during puberty. So it’s not a surprise to him that his dick starts taking an interest when they practice, when they’re wrestling and Prust has him pinned, or when he catches a mistimed swing and splits his lip.

After a while Prust starts noticing. And a little after that Gally smiles ruefully and says 'Shit, you gonna help me out then?’

So now he comes back to his room bruised and bleeding, but loose-limbed and smug, flopping down onto his bed like he’s been running marathons, smiling sunshine-bright the whole time. Alex glares at him in silence and rolls over in bed to face the wall. 

* * *

Alex starts glowering at Prust with particular vigour and commitment. Prust ignores him.

* * *

There’s a Rangers game in January. Prust has the date marked in his calendar; Gally does too now. He starts checking injury reports and scratched lists, starts looking at line rotations and plays. Prust blows him when he gets it right, when he remembers Boyle’s tells and keeps his punches loose. Two weeks before the game Prust fucks him for the first time. 

Gally doesn’t tell Alex but he thinks somehow Alex knows. Alex has stopped asking where he’s going, what he’s doing, has stopped asking if Gally wants to come out for a drink with PK or play XBox. Doesn’t say anything about Gally’s bruises or when Gally doesn’t come back until morning.

Once, though, just once, when Gally’s leaning over his suitcase and his t shirt pulls down to his collar bone, Alex fits his fingers into the purple bruises on Gally’s neck and squeezes _._

Gally stops moving, stops breathing, just the softest ' _ah_ ' moaned into the quiet room before he can help it. Alex stays for a second, jerks his hand back, and walks out without saying a word.

* * *

The night before the game they run through it one more time. It’s prosaic, redundant, Gally knows the answers by rote and he knows - they both know the sparring is just a excuse now, just a way in to Prust pressing him face down into the mattress, folding his wrists behind his back with a heavy hand and fucking him until he bites down on the duvet to stay quiet.

It’s dumb to do this before a game but Gally never claimed to be smart: he’s spent the past 3 months getting punched by his teammate and then getting his dick sucked, and tomorrow he’s fighting a dude who’s 7 foot tall and apparently telegraphs his hits like newspaper headlines, all because Prust left New York and couldn’t deal. Gally’s life is dumb right now. So coming with his dick trapped between his belly and the bed with Prust biting down on the back of his neck, hot and thick and fucking unapologetic inside him, that feels pretty appropriate. 

* * *

Alex keeps shooting him looks in the locker room and it’s not helping his nerves. Gally doesn’t know how Prust has made it to the second intermission without getting forcibly removed from the game; he’s fucking unprofessional out there, taking dumb penalties and barrelling through guys like they’re bowling pins. Gally’s not sure he’s even checking which team they’re on first. He’s getting his ass handed to him now, the assistant coach screaming at his impassively surly expression about keeping personal feelings off the ice, which, Gally has months of evidence to suggest that’s not gonna happen any time soon.

But Gally's biggest problem is getting Alex to back off, because he is drowning Gally in attitude. Every time the coach says something about staying focused, keeping to the plays, Gally can feel Alex’s pointed glare boring into the side of his head, and when Coach tells Prust to sort himself out, Alex snorts. It’s low enough that Gally’s pretty sure he’s the only one that hears, which is probably exactly what Alex was aiming for.

And even though it’s not Gally’s fight (in spirit, if not in practice) he’s nervous. He’s an athlete, and a competitive asshole like all the rest of them; he doesn’t like losing. So he’s trained and now he’s going to go out and fucking compete, even if Prust has to watch him do it from the TV in the locker room because he’s knocked out a referee.

* * *

It happens six minutes in to the third period. Boyle has been eyeing him up, tracking him around the ice, ignoring Prust and - and Boyle fucking _knows_ , of course Boyle knows, Prust combusting out there, Gally tailing him like a lost dog. What the fuck happened in New York, Jesus. 

Gally has been around tall guys his whole life. He’s used to it, desensitised, has heard every single short joke there is and taken it all smiling because if they’re trying to take him down it means they’re worried. Height doesn’t intimidate him any more, but when he skates up to Boyle and cranes his neck back to look him in the eye he wonders if this time he is, in fact, out of his depth. Boyle looks pissed. He doesn’t look surprised. 

'You wanna go?’ Boyle says, before Gally can get there first. 

Gally shrugs. 'Up to you, man.’

Boyle smiles and punches him in the stomach.

He lands that one, but only because Gally was still giving him time to back the hell out of this dumb clusterfuck they’ve arrived at. After that Boyle can’t touch him, Prust’s instructions proved right with every dodged hit and every crunch of his fist against Boyle’s frame. He gets in a couple of good punches, thinks he feels the skin of a knuckle split against Boyle’s teeth. It’s over fast, before he’s even got going. He wants to protest, explain that he’s been working up to this for months, that he’s not finished, not done enough; but he’s being dragged off, the crowd deafening and his pulse jackrabbit-fast. Over the ref’s shoulder Boyle snarls at him 'Was it good for him too?' 

* * *

They win the game, somehow. He thinks that’s the only reason he escapes with just the furious call for his presence at the rink at 7am the next morning for suicides 'until you puke, Gallagher, this is going to be some Miracle shit, I swear to god.’ Prust leaves without saying anything, disappearing before most of the team make it out of the showers. Gally’s not relieved but he’s not disappointed either; there was never going to be a post game review, no morning-after small talk. They were working towards an end point and they both knew it. Prust will deal with his shit or he won’t, but it not Gally’s problem any more. 

Nobody talks to him about it in the locker room. A couple of meaningless pats on the back, PK ruffles his hair like usual, and he spends the ride back to the hotel trying to even out from the adrenaline roller coaster he’s been on. When he finally makes it to bed he’s still too alert, too jittery to sleep. He’s thinking of reading, maybe going to jerk off in the bathroom, when Alex pipes up from his bed: 'Good fight?’

Gally thought he was asleep. Alex hadn’t said anything on the bus, or going up to their room, or while they got ready for bed. His voice is muffled now like he’s half pressed into the pillow, and Gally can’t make out his tone. 

'Nah, I don’t know. It was dumb, whatever.’

It takes Alex a while to talk again. When he does his voice is clearer. Sharper.

‘He hurt you?’ It doesn’t sound like concern. 

‘Not really.’ Gally answers, carefully. He didn’t, the first punch was more of a shock than anything, and his fingers are sore, kind of, but - well. Alex turns over, stares straight at Gally, eyes wide. He swallows before he speaks.

'You want me to?’

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-post from tumblr uhhhh 5 years ago (originally posted 7/10/13), just in case. My notes at the time were:
> 
> Fucking by proxy is the best, and fucking by fighting is the best, so why not fucking by fighting by proxy YES it’s wonderful and confusing just go with it.


End file.
